Consequences
by thedragonaunt
Summary: When Sherlock went away, he took Molly's heart with him but he left something even more precious behind. Now Molly must face her own great adventure alone. This story is the sequel to 'Aftermath'. Some mild swearing. I have employed a bit of poetic licence with Sherlock's family history, in Chapter 5. Cover art by the wonderful flavialikestodraw DOT tumblr DOT com.
1. Chapter 1

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter One **

Molly sat on the side of her bath and looked at the object in her hand. She had read the instructions very carefully but now checked them again. One stripe – negative; two stripes – positive. There were definitely two stripes.

She was not surprised. This was just confirmation. She would do a more scientific test tomorrow, at work, to confirm even more positively but she had already known. She was as regular as clockwork in her monthly cycle – twenty eight days, spot on. It was six weeks since Sherlock left and she had just missed her second deadline. She was six weeks pregnant.

She was not entirely sure, yet, how she felt about that. Her most prominent feeling, at this moment, was wonder. She was struck by the awesome idea that she knew something that no one else in the world knew – she was pregnant with Sherlock's baby.

The day he left, she had been utterly shattered. She could not stop crying, not even long enough to phone in sick to work. She had been forced to email her boss, apologising for the short notice and pleading a sore throat and lost voice, for want of a better excuse for not phoning. She had sat in the armchair, leaking hot, salt tears. Every time she thought she could not cry anymore, she cried some more. After about two hours of convulsive sobbing, she felt weak, tremulous and completely drained. Her eyes were sore, her ribs ached and her cheeks were burning. She tottered to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, bending over the basin and scooping water straight from the running tap. She held the hand towel to her eyes to blot away the dripping water then looked at her ruined face in the bathroom mirror. It was then that she noticed, hanging on the back of the bathroom door, Sherlock's blue dressing gown. He had forgotten it. He had left it behind. She stumbled across the room, gathered the fabric in her hands and inhaled the achingly familiar scent of his aftershave. Lifting the garment off the hook, she hugged it to her chest and sank down on the floor behind the door, beside herself again.

For the next two days, she just sat in her flat, aching and, in fact, barely moved off the sofa. On the third day, she forced herself to go into the guest bedroom to strip the bed that Sherlock had occupied during his stay. On opening the door, she was surprised to see that he had stripped it himself, folded the duvet and left it in a neat pile, along with the pillows, at the bottom of the bed. The used linen and his towel, he had stuffed into one of the pillow cases and left it on the floor. Had he known how hard she would find this task of removing his presence from her home? Looking round the room, there was no physical evidence that he had ever been there – apart from his blue dressing gown, which she was now wearing, over her own. She was struck by the finality of the scene and it dawned on her that this was, indeed, like a death and she was, in fact, in mourning. He was never coming back – but even if he did, it could never be the same again. They had shared a unique moment in time but that was all it was – just a moment.

Strangely, this realisation helped her to get back on track. She knew she could not spend the rest of her life moping after him. She had a bath, got dressed and spent the day cleaning the flat. She washed his bedding and took his dressing gown, folded it neatly into a plastic bag and put it in the back of her wardrobe. It would be there for him, if he ever came back to claim it.

On the fourth day, she went back to work. It was not hard to convince people she had been ill. She was pale and thin. Some of her colleagues were concerned she had come back too soon but she thanked them for their consideration and buried herself in her work.

When she missed her first period, she didn't think much about it. She had lost quite a bit of weight and she knew that a low BMI could cause one's periods to stop. At that stage, it never occurred to her that she might be pregnant. But four weeks later, when her second period failed to put in an appearance, the idea suddenly struck her. When she thought about it, she realised that there were other tell-tale signs – her breasts were a bit swollen and tingly, though not exactly painful and she had started to feel a bit nauseous when she smelt certain aromas, notably coffee, tea and anything frying. She loved tea and could drink about ten cups a day, given the chance, but she found she could not face the thought of it, let alone the taste. This was the conclusive piece of evidence and the thing that prompted Molly to buy the predictor and take the test.

Confirmation of her new status of mother-to-be focused Molly's attention and galvanised her into action. Walking from the bathroom to the sitting room, via the kitchen fridge, to pour a large glass of milk (the only thing she could tolerate drinking, at the moment), she sat in the armchair and began to make a list – a plan of action. She would make an appointment to see her GP and get registered with an obstetrician; she would tell her boss that she would like to continue to work as far into the pregnancy as possible so that she could take maximum maternity leave, after the birth. She would not tell any of her colleagues until after her twelve week scan, just in case anything happened in the meantime. She was fully aware that about twenty percent of all pregnancies spontaneously aborted because the embryos were nonviable, often before the host mothers even knew they were carrying, so no point telling too many people just yet.

Molly was a scientist. She knew that a foetus was the most efficient kind of parasite. Having taken up residence in the womb of its host and plugged itself in, via the placenta and umbilical cord, it would set about making changes to the mother's physiology to maximise its own comfort and meet its own needs. This was not a symbiotic relationship. The baby took and the mother gave. She was aware that all the hormonal changes going on inside her body were triggered by the embryo sending chemical messages to her brain, specifically her pituitary gland. As a scientist, Molly marvelled at the efficiency with which this tiny creature had taken control. She knew she was going to make the most of this experience, the whole process of procreation, on both an emotional and an intellectual level. She surprised herself when she realised that her approach to this situation was not unlike how Sherlock might have approached it, had the roles been reversed. They were not that dissimilar, after all.

Next day, Molly went to see her boss. He listened to what she had to say and responded in a very professional way. He advised her that he would need to ask HR to do a risk assessment, if she intended to continue working up to the last possible moment, as there were some duties in a Pathology lab which might be potentially harmful to the foetus and she may have to change her working practices, appropriately. He respected her wish for confidentiality and assured her that no one would hear anything from him. At the end of the interview, having gone over all the practicalities, he stood up, leaned forward, putting his hand on hers and smiled broadly. 'Congratulations, Molly', he said, warmly, and she smiled, too, probably for the first time in weeks, as she realised that she was excited.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 2

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter Two**

Molly soon found that she might have to spill the beans a little earlier than expected, when her aversion to certain smells developed into nausea emesis gravidarum, an extreme form of 'morning sickness', round about the eighth week of her pregnancy. On one occasion, whilst riding home on the bus from a late shift, someone got on with a hamburger in a plastic carton and sat just in front of her. She was so over-come with the urge to puke, she had to ring the bell and get off at the next stop, where she proceeded to hurl chunks into the gutter. People walking by gave her a wide birth and she knew that they probably thought she was drunk. She so wanted to proclaim that she was NOT drunk but PREGNANT but she knew it did not really matter. She would never see any of these people again, anyway.

She had never been squeamish about cutting up bodies but she found herself having to rush to the 'Ladies' at the slightest whiff of bodily aromas and, on a couple of occasions, she felt extremely faint and had to sit down with her head between her knees until the colour returned to her cheeks. Her colleagues could not fail to notice these uncharacteristic episodes. Rumours would soon start to circulate.

One day, towards the end of her tenth week, she spotted Maria, the medical photographer, sitting on her own in the staff canteen, and decided it was time to put another part of her master plan into action.

'Do you mind if I join you?' she asked. Maria was a colleague but not really a friend. 'Of course not,' she smiled. Molly sat down, took a deep breath and launched into her mission.

'Maria, I have something to tell you. I want you to know that I'm pregnant.'

Maria's mouth fell open then she broke into a broad smile. 'I knew it!' she exclaimed. 'Wow, Molly, that explains everything. Oh, my goodness! How wonderful! But I didn't even know you were with someone. Who's the lucky guy?'

Fortunately, Molly had anticipated this enquiry.

'I'm not with anyone, actually. I…' But before Molly could complete her prepared explanation, Maria launched in again.

'Oh my God, you've had A. I. Oh, Molly, how marvellous! You know, I've thought about doing that so many times. I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we? And sitting around waiting for Mr Right doesn't seem to be working. Gosh, you are so brave!'

Molly was about to correct her over-enthusiastic confidant when it suddenly occurred to her that this was the perfect cover story. Why hadn't she thought of this herself? She changed tack, accepted Maria's compliments on her 'out there-ness' and then delivered her second revelation.

'Maria, I need to ask a big favour. I would really like you to be my birth partner.'

This did actually render the loquacious lady speechless - for at least two seconds.

'Oh, Molly, me? Are you sure? I mean, of course, I'd be honoured but, are you sure there's no one else you'd rather, like your sister, maybe? Have you got a sister?'

'No, Maria, I really would like you to do it but for a very important reason.' Molly paused to rally her resolve. 'You are a medical photographer. You have photographed heart transplants, conjoined twin separations, all manner of medical procedures. I would really like you to film the birth.'

Again, Molly had flummoxed her companion.

'I really want a permanent record of the delivery, something tangible that I can keep, maybe show the child itself, when it's old enough.'

Maria sat dumb-founded for a further two seconds, and then almost leapt out of her chair.

'Wow, Molly, I would be thrilled to film your baby's birth, I would be honoured and delighted! In fact,' she said, her professional mind jumping into gear, 'I would love to document the whole pregnancy. You know, take photographs of you through every stage, so you would have a complete account of the whole thing.'

This was more than even Molly herself had thought of and she was thrilled with the idea. 'Oh, Maria, I knew you were the right person to ask. Thank you so much!'

They spent the rest of their lunch break discussing various ideas and options for the 'magnum opus' that was going to be the story of Molly's pregnancy. When they stood up to return to work, Molly reminded Maria that no one else knew yet and asked her to respect this until she, Molly, had had time to tell the others. Maria mimed pulling a zip across her lips and winked at Molly. Another step in the plan of action had been achieved.

Two weeks later, when Molly went for her 12 week scan, Maria came along and videoed the whole process. The radiographer came to the conclusion that this was a lesbian couple and treated Maria like the expectant father, which had her and Molly in fits of giggles for days afterwards. The scan showed that everything was absolutely fine and the baby was developing normally. At the appropriate moment, the radiographer asked, 'Would you like to know your baby's sex, ladies?'

'No!' Molly exclaimed which made the other two women look at her, with curiosity. 'No,' she said, more levelly. 'I want it to be a surprise.' Molly already had a visual image of her baby as a boy, for no good reason that she could think of, but she really did not care which sex it was. Maria squeezed her hand and smiled.

'That's lovely,' the radiographer beamed. 'I always think it's a shame that people can know in advance but I suppose I am a bit old-fashioned.'

Armed with the print out from the scan, on the following Saturday, Molly caught the train to Northampton. She needed to tell her mother that she was to be a grandmother and she knew it had to be done face to face. Molly had been a daddy's girl, growing up. She shared a love of scientific inquiry with her dad and they had gone off to science fairs and museums and the like, when he was alive. She was not that close to her mother, who had favoured her sister, she being more of a girlie girl than Molly. She was a little apprehensive about how her mother might take the news but she knew it was just a matter of time before it became common knowledge and that she had to break it to her family first.

Her mother's reaction was pretty much as expected.

'Molly, I should have thought you would know better than to get yourself pregnant.'

'Mum, it is a physical impossibility to get your SELF pregnant. There has to be some outside influence, too,' Molly countered.

'Don't you get smart with me, my girl! You're supposed to be educated. What was the point of sending you to university? You might as well have gone to work in a shop. You're no better than these young girls round here, who think the world owes them a council flat and a load of benefits.'

'God, mother, don't be such a Daily Mail reader! Yes, I went to university, got good qualifications so I could get a good job. And I have! I am well paid, I have my own flat. I would still have these things, whether I were pregnant or not.'

'And what about the father? What does he have to say about it? And where is he? Why isn't he here? Too ashamed to show his face?'

Molly closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

'The baby's father and I are no longer together. He lives abroad.'

'Oh, my god! He's a foreigner! Came over here, got you pregnant and then buggered off home! What colour is this baby going to be?'

'Mother,' Molly said, quietly and calmly, 'He is not a foreigner, not that that would matter, anyway. He's English. And he had to go abroad for his work. He didn't want to go and would much rather have stayed here, but he had no choice in the matter. And though, again, it really does not matter, he is white. So, unless there are any recessive genes on our side of the family that we don't know about, this baby will be white, too. And, anyway, Mum, I'm not a teenager, I'm thirty-one. By the time you were my age, you had two children already.'

'Yes, but I was married. That's the difference,' her mother replied.

'Well, lucky you. Some of us are not so fortunate.'

Travelling back on the train, that evening, having declined the invitation to stay over because she could not stand the recriminatory looks she was getting from her parent, Molly felt rather weepy. This was not entirely surprising, as she knew that it was, in part, down to the effects of the pregnancy itself, but crying in public was not something she wanted to experience, so she went into the toilet for a bit of a blub and felt a lot better.

As the weeks went by, Molly began to make further preparations for the arrival of her baby. She did not want to go too mad, since there was always the chance that something might go wrong and she would be left with a load of baby stuff to mock her, but she did start looking in charity shops for second hand baby things, reasoning that they did not cost much and she could always re-donate them, if things did not work out.

She made a point of reading anything and everything she could get her hands on about foetal development, child birth and child development. She spent hours in the hospital library and on the Internet, reading all the latest research papers on these subjects.

At home, in the evenings, Molly spent her time getting to know her unborn child. She noted that Junior was most active in the evenings, especially if Molly had a bath. She had read that vision was one of the first senses to develop in the foetus and that the baby would be able to detect light, diffusing through her stomach wall, when she was naked, so she often lay in the bath for up to an hour, letting her baby get maximum light exposure. After her bath, she would sit in her armchair, listening to music and talking to her 'little parasite'. Mozart seemed to sooth the baby whereas Beethoven made it leap about and turn somersaults, swimming around in its private pool of amniotic fluid. She often talked to him/her about Sherlock, about what a brave and clever man he was, how he had sacrificed everything to save his friends and keep them safe, how much he would love to meet his baby, some day. She wasn't sure how true the last bit was but she reasoned that any man would want to meet his child so why should Sherlock be any different?

Molly had not thought of any names for her baby, partly because of her superstition about tempting Fate but mainly because she intended, once the baby was born, to tell Mycroft that he was an uncle and to ask if there were any family names that it might be appropriate for the baby to be given. She felt that this was the closest she could get to giving Sherlock a part in the naming of his child.

Thinking about Sherlock made her sad. She wondered where he was, what he was doing and how dangerous it was. Was he lonely? Was he hurt? Did he ever think of her? She knew he was determined to destroy every last vestige of Moriarty's organisation, in order to remove the 'fatwas' that the insane master criminal had put on the heads of his friends. She also knew that, until he achieved this – if he ever did – he would remain 'dead' to the world. This thought made her want to cry but she knew that a miserable mother usually made for a miserable baby so, for that reason, she pulled herself together and got on with her life.

ooOoo


	3. Consequences - Chapter 3

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter Three**

She had not seen or heard from Mycroft since the day Sherlock went away, though she did not expect to, but neither had she spoken to John Watson or Mrs Hudson since the funeral. However, one afternoon, towards the end of her second trimester, she was coming down in the lift from the path lab when it stopped at the floor below, the door opened and John Watson stepped in.

'Molly!' he declared. 'What a lovely surprise! And, wow, look at you! I had no idea!' He clasped her shoulders and gave her a warm peck on both cheeks. 'When's the baby due? And who's the daddy?'

Molly cleverly side-stepped the second half of this question by launching into a very technical account of the current status of her pregnancy then said,

'What about you, John? How are things with you, now?'

He explained that he had just dropped in to see Stanford because he had some news of his own.

'I've met someone, Molly. We're getting engaged. I just came by to invite Stamford to the party, next Saturday. Please say you'll come, too? Mrs Hudson will be there and Greg Lestrade. Even Sally Donovan and Anderson are coming. It will be nice to get the old crowd back together again. I haven't really seen any of them since….well, you know, since….Anyway, please come and bring along your partner. It will be great to meet him. '

Molly thanked him for the invitation and he gave her the address. It was not 221B Baker Street. Apparently, he had moved out of there as soon as he could find an alternative. Too many memories. They bid one another goodbye, outside the main door to St Bart's and Molly assured him that she would come to the party, though afterwards, left to her own thoughts, she wondered how difficult it would be to keep up the pretence that Sherlock was dead, faced with all the people who knew him best – the very people, in fact, for whom he had made the great sacrifice of faking his own death and going into self-imposed exile. However, she found she really would like to see the old faces again – even Donovan and Anderson, perhaps – so she decided she would go.

As it turned out, it was rather a pleasant social occasion. When she arrived, everyone received her warmly. They all expressed surprise and delight that she was expecting a happy event and, once everyone had exchanged greetings and introductions, she sat with Mrs Hudson for quite a while, talking about babies. Mrs H had no children of her own, which is probably why she had unofficially adopted Sherlock and, to a lesser extent, John, but she had nieces and nephews and even great ones, too, so she had lots of baby anecdotes to share. John's fiancée, Mary, seemed really nice and, seeing them together, it was obvious that they were truly in love. Molly was pleased that John had found someone who clearly made him happy. It must have helped him deal with the loss of his best friend.

Inevitably, the conversation came round to Sherlock. Unbeknown to Molly - and probably engineered by Mycroft - Moriarty's deception had been exposed and the 'Rich Brook' revelations discredited. Lestrade had been reinstated as a D.I. and Sherlock's name had been cleared. Why hadn't anyone thought to tell her? But she had been so much out of the loop for the last seven months. Sherlock was the glue that held this group of people together. Without him, they had split apart. Of course, these revelations about Moriarty's guilt and Sherlock's innocence led them all to speculate as to why he had insisted that it was all true and then jumped off the roof but it was agreed that Sherlock had been under a huge amount of stress at the time and, perhaps, he could see no other way out. It was a quite cathartic experience, talking about him. Even Donovan agreed, grudgingly, that he was very good at what he did (Anderson abstained from commenting). John became rather pensive and took himself into the kitchen, which is where Molly found him, when she went to say goodbye.

'I'm a bit tired, John,' she explained, 'carrying all this extra weight around really takes it out of you!'

'Well, I'm very grateful to you for coming, Molly. I really wanted everyone to meet Mary. I don't know where I would be now, without her,' John confided, looking close to tears.

Molly gave him a hug. 'You know, John, Sherlock would be pleased that you've found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. And, let's face it, I don't think you could have got this far in any relationship with him around. He was rather 'Death to Girlfriends', wasn't he?'

John had to laugh then. 'God, you are so right, Molly. He could kill passion with a glance. Anyway, please keep in touch and let us know when that baby arrives. And, when we set a date for the wedding, you will definitely be on the VIP guest list.' He stepped forward and hugged her to him, just as the baby let loose with a might kick, which he felt, even through his and Molly's clothing.

'Good God, what have you got in there, a horse?' John exclaimed, laughing.

'It's either the Karate Kid or Johnny Wilkinson, I'm not sure,' Molly replied. 'But I'll keep you posted!'

Molly took her leave, silently marvelling at the fact that no one had even asked about the father of her baby but then she reasoned that Stanford had probably filled them in on the 'A.I.' story and she said a heart-felt 'thank you' to Maria and her fertile imagination.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 4

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter Four**

At work, Molly's duties had changed considerably. Because of the daily contact with bodily fluids and despite the very high levels of infection control practiced in the Pathology Department, HR had ruled that Molly should have more of a desk job. She mostly spent her time doing library and Internet research for other members of the team, which enabled her to carry out her own research, too, on anything baby-related. Very occasionally, she would be asked to double check some findings of another team member, so long as bodily fluids were not involved. Such was the case, one day towards the end of her thirty-eighth week, when she was asked to take a look at some non-biological trace evidence found at a murder scene. She had been standing at her bench, peering into the lenses of a microscope at various prepared slides, for a couple of hours. She stood up straight and arched her spine, rubbing her lower back.

'You OK, Molly?' asked a colleague, working on the next bench.

'Yes, fine,' she smiled. 'I must have slept a bit awkwardly last night. I woke up this morning with awful back ache. I'll be OK.'

Half an hour later, she breathed a rather irritated sigh. At this late stage of her pregnancy, her womb and its occupant took up rather a lot of space inside her body wall, so her bladder had been squashed somewhat, requiring her to go to spend a penny a tad frequently. She now felt the need to go. Taking full advantage of the more generous dimensions of the Disabled toilet, she pulled down her pants and eased herself onto the seat. Her mouth then formed a startled 'O' shape, as she saw blood stains on the gusset of her pants.

'Oh, God!' she said, out loud, 'I'm spotting!'

She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, then took out her mobile and rang the number of her obstetrician. The clinic nurse answered on the fourth ring. She explained the situation to the nurse.

'Do you have any other indications that you might be in labour?' the lady asked.

'Well, I have had lower back pain since I got up this morning and I've had rather more Braxton Hicks than usual,' she replied. 'But this is only my thirty-eighth week.'

'Well, you know, babies don't always go by the calendar. They come when they are ready and I think yours is!' the nurse replied.

'So what should I do next?' Molly asked, in full action mode, now. The nurse assured her that there was no need to rush. She advised her to time the intervals between her contractions and, when they got to fifteen minutes apart, come into hospital but, in the meantime, to just carry on as normal but not to do anything too strenuous.

'Bloody typical!' she thought, 'Two weeks early! Trust Sherlock's baby to set its own agenda.'

She clicked off from that call and sent a text to Maria. It read, 'Showtime!'

ooOoo

Maria arrived breathless, about 10 minutes later, to find Molly sitting in her ergonomically designed computer chair, sipping a glass of water.

'Oh!' she said, 'I thought you'd be rolling around on the floor, yelling 'The baby's coming! The baby's coming!' Not sitting there, like you're waiting for a bus.'

'Only in the movies, Maria. Real life is not nearly so dramatic.' Molly related to Maria what the nurse had advised. 'The thing is, I don't have my hospital bag here.' She had packed her hospital bag weeks ago and it was sitting just inside the door to her flat, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. 'If I give you my keys, could you please go and fetch it for me?'

'Yes, so long as you promise not to have that baby before I get back', Maria replied.

'Girl Guide's honour', Molly assured her.

By the time Maria returned, things had progressed. The contractions were now twenty minutes apart and getting a bit more uncomfortable. Molly had moved to the staff lounge and was standing by the sink unit, bending over the counter top and practicing her breathing. She felt remarkably calm. Her anti-natal classes were proving their worth, as she recognised each new sensation as it occurred. Maria was just about to settle herself on the sofa when Molly gave a sudden gasp, and looked down at the floor, at the small pool of liquid that was growing round her feet.

'Bloody hell, my waters have broken.'

That was the cue for Action Stations. Molly knew that, once the waters broke, labour would normally progress apace, so it was time to go. Maria called a taxi, gathered up her camera bag and Molly's case and they were on their way.

The next few hours went by in a bit of a blur. Molly was admitted to the labour ward, examined and advised that her cervix was five centimetres dilated. Her labour was well progressed. She was then prepped and changed into a hospital gown and advised to stay on the bed but her body was telling her to pace, so she did, stopping, with gradually increasing frequency, to rest her hands on the foot bar of the bed, bending forward, to ride out each contraction, as it came and went. Maria got her cameras ready and started to film. As the contractions became more frequent and more intense, Molly's consciousness moved onto a different plain. She was barely aware of anything going on around her. At various stages, a midwife came in, examined her and gave a progress report but she hardly took any of it in. She was entirely focused on the physiological changes going on inside her own body and she responded instinctively to these changes. Every now and then, she would mumble encouraging words to herself and to the baby, in a private dialogue between her own body and her unborn child. After about four hours, she was moved from the Progress Suite to the Birthing Suite and things really began in earnest. She still wanted to pace but the midwife insisted she lay on the bed so she had to find the position that felt right to her. This turned out to be lying on her side, with two pillows between her knees.

Molly had made it clear, early on in her pregnancy, that she wanted a natural birth. This was not so common as it had been in the past, but she had read that babies born in drug free labour were more alert and fed better in the first few days post-partum and, given Sherlock's history of drug abuse, she did not want to risk any vestigial propensity to be triggered in her child from exposure to awareness-altering drugs, even at this early stage in its life. So, in compliance with her wishes, she was given just the gas and air, to help manage the pain. Time ticked by. The contractions were becoming much stronger now and she felt an irresistible urge to bear down. The midwife instructed her to resist these urges and to pant, instead, until she could see that the baby's head was crowning.

All the while, Maria was doing a very professional job of recording the event. As a highly regarded medical photographer, she was well accustomed to working in this type of environment, getting perfect shots from optimum vantage points whilst keeping well out of the way of the health care professionals, so as not to impede them in their work.

Molly was beginning to get agitated. She wanted so much to push but the midwife was still saying it wasn't time then, at long last, the woman said,

'OK, Molly. Next contraction, I want you to push.'

Molly hooked her hands behind her knees, to brace herself, and, when the time was right, she took a deep breath and pushed as hard and as long as she could. She tried not to make any vocal sounds, as she had read that this was wasted breath and reduced the efficiency of the bearing down. Molly was a scientist and she was applying her knowledge to the task in hand. This was the business end of the process and the time when one learned that it was not called labour for nothing. In the short breaks between pushing, Molly lay on her side with eyes closed, taking sips through a straw from a glass of water held by a nurse, marshalling her strength for the next onslaught. She quite lost count of the number of times she bore down but she was getting very tired and beginning to see red flashes in her vision, which she knew were signs of raised blood pressure. She began to feel she could not take much more of the straining then she heard the midwife say,

'Next time, Molly, we need a big push! Baby's nearly here.'

'I can't, she whispered, 'I can't do this any more.'

'Yes, you can! You've done brilliantly this far. Nearly there, Molly, just a couple more pushes and we're there!'

Molly felt the next contraction begin to build, felt the pain engulfing her torso; she braced herself for one more push and began to bear down…

'Molly, pant, now! Pant!' The midwife spoke urgently. Molly converted the push into panting and she felt the pressure in her pelvis suddenly reduce.

'We've got the head, Molly, your baby's head is born. Next push, you'll have your baby!'

Molly could feel the next contraction coming and she braced herself one final time. It was almost instantaneous. She began to bear down and she felt the baby slip from her like an eel….

'It's a boy, Molly. You have a beautiful baby boy!' She heard him cry out, just once, and then go quiet.

'Let me see him…please…give him to me….' she breathed, as she rolled over onto her back and held out her arms. The midwife scooped the baby up from between her knees and placed him, face down, on her chest, naked and bloodied and slippery, with a damp shock of thick black hair, plastered to his scalp. She placed her hands upon him and looked into his wide open eyes. They were almond shaped and greeny-blue. They were Sherlock's eyes.

ooOoo


	5. Consequences - Chapter 5

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter Five**

Next morning, having spent the night in the crèche, so that Molly could rest, Baby Hooper, as his i.d. bands stated, was brought back to his mother. He had been weighed and measured, bathed and dressed and placed in a little plastic crib on wheels. He had been given glucose and water but nothing more so he was ready for his first feed. The specialist nurse guided Molly through her first breast feed, the burping and the nappy changing, and then left them alone together. The new mother sat in the nursing chair, next to her bed, cradling her son in her arms and gazing in awe at his delicate features. Could this be real? It hardly seemed possible that, from the frantic need of that desperate night, all those months ago, she and Sherlock had made this exquisite being. Yet here he was, this miracle baby, this gift from nature, her serendipity.

A light knock at the door roused her from her reverie. She looked up to see John Watson and Mary walking in, bringing a huge bouquet of flowers. Maria had performed her duties well, phoning around all the people on the list that Molly had prepared in advance, to advise each of them as Molly had instructed. John came over and gave her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, then stood beside her, gazing at the serene expression of the sleeping baby.

'Would you like to hold him, John?' Molly asked.

'Well, it's been awhile since I did any paediatrics so I suppose a bit of practice wouldn't go amiss,' John replied, with a grin. Molly passed the swaddled infant to him and he stood, rocking, with a huge smile on his face. Molly climbed back onto the bed and Mary took the chair.

'Have you thought what you might call him?' Mary asked.

'No, not yet. I have a few ideas but I want to think about it a bit more, decide what suits him best. I have six weeks to register him,' she replied.

They chatted about this and that for around 15 minutes, whilst first John and them Mary held the baby, then they popped him back in his crib and took their leave, so that Molly could rest. However, they had barely been gone five minutes when there was another knock at the door and it opened to admit a tall, thin gentleman, in a three piece suit, carrying a furled black umbrella. Molly had been dozing off, but her eyes fluttered open as Mycroft Holmes walked toward the bed. He stopped about three feet away, glancing from Molly to the crib and back to Molly before he spoke.

'Miss Hooper, your messenger asked me to come here to see you this afternoon but, I must confess, my curiosity has gotten the better of me so, I regret, I am a little early. I trust this is not inconvenient.'

'Well, it could have been a bit awkward. John Watson has only just left,' Molly replied.

'And why might that have been awkward?' Mycroft retorted, fixing her with an intimidating eye.

Molly had thought long and hard about how she would like this conversation to go. She was glad that she had rehearsed it in her head. She could deliver her lines like a learned speech.

'Mycroft, this is my baby. He's also Sherlock's baby. He's your nephew.'

ooOoo

Mycroft stood leaning on his umbrella, with a controlled expression on his face but did not speak. Molly took a breath and went on.

'I appreciate that you may require some proof that Sherlock is the father of this baby so I asked the nursing staff, when they did his heel test, to take two samples of blood. I've told them they can give you one of the samples so that you can arrange your own paternity test.'

Mycroft shifted his position slightly, processing this information, then gave a brief nod.

'Thank you, Miss Hooper. I am impressed by your pragmatism. May I collect the sample today?'

'Yes, just ask at the desk,' she replied.

He bowed his head, smiled thinly, turned and left. Molly relaxed back on her pillows. It was nothing less than she had expected but it did leave her wondering how Mycroft would react when the test did in fact prove positive.

Two days later, she got her answer. She had just finished feeding and changing Baby Hooper when a nurse came to the door and announced that she had a visitor. Molly gave her the nod to admit them. It was a very different Mycroft who came through the door, this time.

He came in looking rather ruffled. He was trying, without success, to control a very powerful emotion. He looked at Molly, seated in the nursing chair, holding her baby, walked straight over to her, knelt down on one knee and put a slightly trembling hand on the baby's head. Molly was so taken aback, she couldn't speak. They were, all three, frozen in that tableau for a long moment, then Mycroft stood, stepped back and wiped his hand across his brow in a very uncharacteristic gesture. Molly found her voice first.

'Mycroft, please sit down.'

He looked around for a chair, saw one against the wall and drew it forward, to sit diagonally opposite her.

'Miss Hooper….'he began and then seemed to lose his concentration and falter.

'Molly. Please, call me Molly.' She felt quite moved by Mycroft's obvious discomfiture.

'Molly,' he began again, 'as I am sure you have guessed, the paternity test proved positive….'

'No, Mycroft,' she interrupted, quite calmly, 'I didn't need to guess. I know who the father of my baby is.'

Mycroft then looked even more flustered.

'I am so sorry Miss….Molly, I mean Molly. I did not intend in any way to impugn your virtue. Please, I do apologise!'

Molly could not help herself. She began to giggle but quickly regained control and said,

'Mycroft, I appreciate this is a difficult situation. I know what you were trying to say.' She paused, then smiled and, pushing herself up with one hand on the arm of her chair, she stepped forward, placed the baby in Mycroft's startled arms and sat back down again.

At first, he just stared at the little creature, as though it were about to explode, but then he seemed to relax and settled into a more comfortable position, gazing into his nephew's wide-awake eyes, with a strange smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

'He looks just like Sherlock did at this age, all hair and eyes. We have photographs at home that could be him!'

This was a side of Mycroft that Molly could never have imagined existed and she was utterly taken aback. She suddenly understood that he really had been concerned about his brother, all these years, and had, perhaps, not entirely been the rabid control freak that Sherlock had made him out to be. It was a revelation.

He was completely engrossed in the baby. He began to rock, very gently, from side to side, as he studied every pore of the child's face. Molly did not know much about Sherlock's up-bringing but, from her knowledge of the Holmes brothers, she had surmised that theirs had not been a particularly loving home. Taking into account the seven year age difference between them, she imagined that the older brother had been obliged to assume quite a parental role for his younger sibling from a very early age. In many ways, this explained so much about their fraught relationship. It seemed almost inevitable that Sherlock would become the perennial stroppy teenager, who thought he knew it all, to Mycroft's disapproving father figure, who had forgotten what it was like to be young. A psychoanalyst could make a whole career out of unravelling the two of them, she thought.

'You have the magic touch,' Molly said, breaking the comfortable silence. The baby was sound asleep. Mycroft looked up, smiling rather sheepishly – a mixture of pleasure at the compliment and embarrassment at having revealed his softer side.

'What have you named him?' he asked.

'I haven't, yet. I wanted to talk to you first,' Molly replied.

'Yes,' responded Mycroft, 'we do have rather a lot to talk about, don't we.' It was a statement, rather than a question. He stood up and placed the baby in the little crib, making sure to lay him on his side and cover him over with the thermal blanket. Then he turned to Molly and said,

'Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It is rather warm in here.' Molly gave her consent, with a little shrug, marvelling at the complex social rules that governed this man's everyday life. Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair before sitting down and folding his hands in his lap. He looked at Molly, inviting her to speak first.

'I would like to call him William, after my dad, and his surname will be Hooper-Holmes. But I wondered if there was a particular family name that you thought Sherlock might like him to have.' Molly paused. Mycroft steepled his fingers below his chin, a gesture so painfully reminiscent of Sherlock himself. He seemed to be giving the matter very careful consideration. Then he took in a breath and replied.

'Our mother's maiden name was Howard. She was a member of the Howard family.' He looked at Molly as though this should mean something to her but other than the fact that, if one were a member of a family one would expect to share their surname, she could not see the relevance of his remark. He saw her confusion and elucidated.

'She was a descendent of the Howard family, who made a practice of sacrificing their daughters to the Tudor court, in the 16th Century, in exchange for wealth and power,' he explained. 'She was distantly related to Kathryn Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, and, of course, to Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife, who was Kathryn's cousin. Both ladies met a very grim and untimely end, sadly.'

Molly was rather stunned by this revelation. She had been vaguely aware that Sherlock was 'connected' but she had no idea how well. But she quickly regained her composure.

'William Howard Hooper-Holmes,' she ran it by them both. 'Quite a lot of 'h'-es but it does have a certain ring to it,' she concluded. 'And Howard does sound like a given name as well as a surname so, yes, I like it'. She nodded, appreciatively. That was settled, then.

'Now, Miss…..I..I mean, Molly, if you wish to register Sherlock as William's father, since he is officially deceased, you will need this.' He reached round into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folded piece of A4 paper, handing it across to her. She opened it. It was the Paternity Test Report. She looked at it.

'Ninety-eight percent?' she queried, with a rising intonation.

'Yes, well, obviously I did not have a sample of Sherlock's blood to hand so I submitted my own blood for the test. As we both well know, I am not – and indeed could never be – this baby's father. Consequently, the match was not as complete but, as, again, both you and I know, it is near enough. The registrar will accept it as proof of paternity. But, if you encounter any difficulties, please let me know and I will deal with it.' He nodded, confidently. Molly knew that he was very good at dealing with things.

'Now, Mycroft, I know that you have some means of communicating with Sherlock but I must ask you not to tell him about William. I'm worried that, if he knew about him, he would want to come back and, even if he didn't want to come back, it might be very distracting for him and could make him careless, perhaps put him in danger.' She looked to Mycroft for a response.

He inspected his hands, now resting on his knees.

'I agree entirely that it would be better by far, for him, if he were kept in the dark about this. He really cannot return yet. It would be far too dangerous. You can rest assured that I will not burden him with this knowledge.'

Molly was quite amazed at how well this conversation was going. They had agreed on two out of two points, so far.

'Now, M…Molly, we really need to discuss your domestic arrangements,' he began. She fixed him with a rather wary look. 'Please don't be alarmed. And please be assured that I only have yours and your baby's best interests in mind. You live alone. You have no family nearby; in fact you have had no visits from any family members since the child was born…'

'Are you spying on me, Mycroft?' she was mortified. He inclined his head to the side and bit his upper lip, exhaled sharply, then said,

'I do have the hospital under surveillance, yes. Even before the test result came in, I was fairly confident that Sherlock was the baby's father and so his and your safety was paramount.' He paused, to collect himself. Molly just stared at him, slightly open-mouthed. He went on,

'This child is not only Sherlock's heir; he is my heir, too. He is very important to me, very dear to me.' Molly could see what a strain it was on this normally so inscrutable man to bare his soul in this way and she was moved that he was showing her his vulnerability. She conceded the point with a small nod and a shrug.

'My family are coming down on Saturday,' she explained. 'My mother and my sister both work in the week.'

'I do appreciate their circumstances, Molly.' (There, he had said it, without a hesitation, at last!) 'It is exactly for this reason that I would like to engage a neonatal nurse to help you take care of William….just for a few weeks, perhaps,' he added as he saw the alarm in her eyes, again. 'Please allow me to do this for you.' He was pleading, now. Mycroft Holmes was pleading with her!

She knew he was right, of course. Here in the Mother and Baby Unit, everything was ergonomically designed to facilitate all the tasks involved in baby care as well as possible. And there was always someone around to give advice or lend a hand. Once she left here, in a day or two, she would be on her own and the prospect was rather daunting. She looked at him. He was waiting for her to complete her internal dialogue.

'OK,' she agreed. 'But just for a month, yes?'

'For as long or as short a time as you feel necessary,' he assured her.

'Now, can we talk about your apartment…?' The startled look reappeared. He opened his hands in an imploring gesture.

'You live on the second floor of a building with no lift AND you have no access to a garden,' he stated the obvious. 'Carrying a baby, a buggy, shopping and all the other things that one must needs carry up and down those stairs is going to make your life very difficult, is it not?' He spoke gently and reasoningly and she knew he was right, yet again, but her flat was her home and she loved it.

'I have taken the liberty of making an offer on a very comfortable garden flat, not ten minutes' walk from St Bart's. It would be extremely convenient for your work and it has an entry phone system and CCTV security surveillance. They have agreed to take it off the market until you have had the opportunity to view it. If you don't like it, Molly, I will withdraw the offer and we can look elsewhere. But you do need a ground floor flat and you do need a garden. Children need outdoor space and, believe me, if your child is anything like his father, he will need it more than most. We grew up in a very large house but two consecutive rainy days would have Sherlock bouncing off the walls. I remember it well.'

This had been quite a long speech. He had kept talking so as not to give Molly the opportunity to raise any objections until he had made all his points. He was very good at that, as well.

'But I own my flat,' she said, a little plaintively.

'You part own it, Molly. It's a shared ownership and you own fifty percent – which is admirable for a single woman of your age, living in London.' He paused and smiled, kindly. 'You would not have to sell your property. You could let it and it would provide you with an income. I would buy the new flat outright and the freehold would be in your name. You would be rent and mortgage free.' He paused, again, for her to consider.

'Let me think about it, please, Mycroft,' she asked.

'Will you at least go and take a look?' he implored. After a small hesitation, she nodded and he breathed a sigh of relief.

At this point, a gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of the tea trolley. The great English tradition of afternoon tea was still observed in this modern institution. The matronly care assistant poked her head round the door and Mycroft jumped to his feet, feeling rather exposed, having been caught without his jacket on.

'Oh, you sit yourself down, dearie,' the lady chided. 'Just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea, Mum. And what about you, Dad? Would you like a cuppa?'

Molly tried not to smile. She doubted that anyone had ever called Mycroft 'dearie' in his life, let alone 'Dad'.

'Just a fresh jug of water for me, thank you. This one is nearly empty,' said Molly and, making an executive decision, she added, 'I think Uncle Mycroft would love a cup of tea.' She looked to him for acquiescence and he nodded, politely. The lady withdrew her head then reappeared a moment later with a fresh water jug and a cup and saucer in that strange green colour that all institutions within the public sector seemed to favour. She placed the jug on the bedside cabinet and took up the empty one, then walked around the bed and placed the cup of what could only be described as 'builder's' tea into Mycroft's outstretched hand. She then patted him, kindly, on the shoulder and left. Molly was impressed with his self-control. He barely showed any indignation at all. He took one sip of the tea, considered his options and decided to drink it, anyway.

'There are a couple more topics I would like to deal with, if you are not too tired, Molly,' he resumed.

'No, I'm fine,' she replied, 'but I think I will lie down, if that's OK.'

'Of course,' he declared, standing up and offering his hand, to assist her to transfer to the bed. Once she was settled, with a large glass of water in her hand, he raised the next subject.

'If my brother were here, he would, of course, contribute to the cost of caring for his son. As he is not, I will assume this responsibility on his behalf. I have taken yet another liberty, I fear, and arranged for a sum of money to be deposited, on a regular monthly basis, into your current account.' He looked at her, to see how she was receiving this news. He was quite relieved to see that she seemed to have given up objecting. So he went on. 'Should this sum prove insufficient, I trust that you would tell me, so that I could rectify the situation.' He leaned forward, pleading again. She gave a resigned nod.

He had only one more request but he feared that this might be the sticking point.

'I would very much like to put William down for Harrow.'

'What?' Molly asked, genuinely confused.

'I would like to put his name down for Harrow School. I am an Old Etonian, needless to say, but Mummy felt that Harrow would be better suited to Sherlock's temperament and she was quite right, of course. So, it is only fitting that William should go to his father's school. And it goes without saying that I would cover the fees.'

'But, Mycroft, he's not even a day old!' Molly declared. 'And isn't Harrow a boarding school?'

'It is, indeed a boarding school, one of the finest, and it is never too early to put one's child's name down for a good school,' he countered.

'Look, I do appreciate what you are doing and I am very grateful, believe me, but I really could never send my child to boarding school.' Molly had known several ex-boarding school pupils at University and they all seemed a bit damaged, in some way, and spoke about their house masters and matrons and the other kids in their houses more than they did their actual parents and siblings. She did not want this for her child. Mycroft could see that he had hit an immoveable object, with this one. He sat back and frowned, slightly, then rallied.

'What about Westminster, then? It's a good school and a day school. He could still live at home. And he wouldn't go until he was thirteen, anyway.' He felt this was a reasonable compromise.

'Alright, I can see that this is really important to you so I will agree to you putting him down for Westminster.'

Mycroft leant forward, with his hands on his knees and breathed a sigh of relief.

'I fear that I have tired you, Molly, and you need to rest so I will not disturb you further today.' He stood, to put on his jacket.

'There is just one thing I would like to say,' Molly put in, causing him to pause.

'I'm going to tell Sherlock's friends that William is his baby, as soon as I can gather them all together. And I want to ask John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to be his god parents. I'd like them to be part of William's life.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and smoothed back his hair. He walked over to the bed and took Molly's hand.

'I can have no objection to my brother's friends being god parents to his son but how will you explain William's paternity?' he looked concerned.

'Don't worry,' she replied, 'I have a good cover story.'

Mycroft patted her hand, smiled and took his leave.

ooOoo


	6. Consequences - Chapter 6

**Consequences**

**By**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter Six**

Molly spent five days in the Mother and Baby Unit, a luxury which she knew she would appreciate in the days, weeks, months and years to come. The thing she valued most was having the time to focus entirely on the needs of her baby, without having to worry about mundane things, like keeping house, cooking meals or working for a living. During this time, they fell into a comfortable routine of feeding, changing, playing and sleeping. The feeding routine was dictated by William. He would wake up and begin to make little sounds which told Molly that he was feeling the need to feed. She would then go through her infection control routine, cleansing her nipples to ensure there was no bacterial contamination. As she did this, she talked to him, answering his grunts and squeaks, as if they were having a conversation. By the time William was fully awake and ready to eat, she was ready to feed. Just the sounds he made stimulated her lactation. On the third day, she noticed that when she reached down into the crib to pick him up, he hunched his shoulders in preparation for the lift. She found this amazing. This creature had spent almost nine months entirely supported in an aquatic environment, cushioned to a large degree from gravity but, in such a short time, he had noticed the effect of gravity, when being lifted, and had begun to find ways of dealing with it. She had read so much about early child development and here was the living proof that babies are consummate adaptive organisms, hardwired to react and assimilate. She felt privileged to be able to witness this process first hand. The nurses all commented that William was a 'placid' baby but Molly knew this was a misconception. William was a thinker, just like his dad.

On the morning of the sixth day, it was time to go home. Mycroft had engaged a specialist neonatal nurse, Caroline, whom he had brought to the Unit the day before, for Molly's approval. They chatted for a few minutes, whilst Mycroft took phone calls in the en suite bathroom. The two young women seemed to be on the same wave length. Caroline assured Molly that she would be calling the shots and that Caroline would be there for back up and support, not to take over. Molly thought Mycroft had made a good choice - something else he was good at. The next day, Caroline arrived at the Unit accompanied by Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, and bringing with her a state of the art baby carrier/car seat. Molly had fed and burped William and dressed him in his 'going away' outfit – a beautiful red all in one suit, lined in soft fur fabric, with little mittens attached – a present from Maria. It suited his colouring so well. She popped him into the baby carrier, checked she had packed everything and said thank you and goodbye to the staff. She left behind the flowers that John and Mary had brought. They would be used to brighten up the reception area of the unit. Stepping outside for the first time in nearly a week was a bit of a shock to Molly's system and she was very glad of the luxury car and the willing assistants, all courtesy of Mycroft.

Back at her building, the chauffeur carried her case up the stairs, Caroline carried William and Andrea assisted her. Molly had to acknowledge that Mycroft had been right again. This was not an ideal situation for a single mum and her child. She resolved to go and view the garden flat as soon as possible.

ooOoo

Two weeks later, Molly was waiting, on tenterhooks, in her sitting room for her guests to arrive. She had invited John and Mary, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade over to 'wet the baby's head', as her mother would say. She was looking forward to seeing them all and showing William off but not to the real purpose of the gathering. Caroline had the afternoon off, which suited Molly fine because she did not have to explain how she could afford a live-in nanny before she had revealed William's paternity. But before she left, Caroline had been out and bought cake and biscuits, and a bottle of reasonably priced champagne. Molly had laid these out in the kitchen, set out the good china and tidied up a bit. The flat looked presentable.

As she sat on the sofa, rehearsing her lines, the doorbell rang. It was John, Mary and Mrs H. It was all smiles and hugs and kisses for the first couple of minutes and then everyone found a seat.

'OK,' said John, 'where is the little beastie, then?'

'Just having his afternoon nap,' replied Molly. 'He is a creature of habit. He likes his routines so, this time, every day, is nap time. It's quite handy, really. It gives me the chance to put my feet up. Tea, anyone?'

She went off into the kitchen, closely followed by Mrs Hudson, who insisted on lending a hand.

'I must say, dear, you are looking very well. Motherhood suits you!' she declared, smiling. 'It's so good that you have got this baby and that John has Mary. It must make it so much easier for you to cope with….., well, you know what.' Mrs Hudson's voice went a bit choked at that point and Molly saw that her eyes shone with unshed tears. She reached out to hug her but Mrs H brushed her away.

'Oh, don't take any notice of me, silly old bat. Most days, I'm fine but every now and then, especially seeing you all together, well, I do miss him. His things are still in the flat, you know.'

Molly was aghast. She had never even considered how Mrs Hudson might be coping with Sherlock's 'death'. And she was faced every day with constant reminders of his former presence in her home. Although, officially, Mrs Hudson was just Sherlock's landlady, in truth their relationship had been so much closer. She thought of him as a surrogate son and he had seen her as a sort of foster mother. She was probably the only person he actually loved. As Molly boiled the kettle and set out the tea things, Mrs Hudson continued,

'Mycroft has been paying the rent, you know. He asked me to leave everything where it was and he comes over now and then. I think he uses the flat as kind of bolt hole, somewhere no one can find him. I think perhaps he feels close to Sherlock there. I mean, I know they didn't get on very well but they were still brothers, after all, and they were all they had. There was no other family, not that I knew about, anyway. So, with Sherlock gone, Mycroft's all alone in the world. A bit like me…' she added, under her breath. Molly took her hand.

'You are not alone, Mrs Hudson. I really want you to get to know William. You can be his London granny! And…well, I have something to ask all of you but I want to wait until Greg gets here.' As if on cue, the doorbell announced Greg Lestrade's arrival and the party was complete. Molly and Mrs H. carried in the tea things and set them out on the coffee table for everyone to help themselves.

Now that everyone was present, Molly knew she had to get on with her mission. If she put it off any longer, she would lose her resolve so she cleared her throat and said,

'There's something I really have to tell you all.' Everyone stopped talking and they all looked at her, expectantly. She looked around at all their faces, thought 'Oh, God!' and then spoke her lines.

'I expect you have all heard the rumour that I had William through a sperm donor. Well, that's what I told everyone but it's not true.' She had all their attention, now.

'William's father is Sherlock.'

It was as though a stun bomb had gone off in the middle of her sitting room. Everyone – except Mary – gasped and almost took a physical step back, in amazement. No one said a word for the longest time and then Greg blurted out,

'But how? Where? When?'

'Oh, goodness me, Inspector Lestrade, you can't ask a young lady questions like that!' Mrs Hudson chided him.

'No,' said Molly, 'it's alright, Mrs H. I want to explain what happened.' They were all staring at her, with rapt attention, desperate to hear what she had to say. She took a big gulp of water – she still couldn't stomach tea – and composed herself, then began,

'The night Sherlock went to Kitty Riley's flat and heard all that rubbish that Moriarty had cooked up, he came to St. Barts. I was about ready to go home and he was just there, standing in the lab, in the dark. He was really upset. Earlier on, I'd asked him if he was OK because I thought he looked sad but he'd just shrugged it off. But that night, he told me he wasn't OK. I asked him what was wrong. He asked me whether, if he wasn't everything I thought he was or everything he thought he was, would I still want to help him. I asked him what he needed and he said, 'You.'' Just talking about their encounter that dreadful night brought back so many terrible memories that Molly felt her chest tightening and tears sprang up in her eyes, over-flowed her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. She could not speak any more.

Her audience sat and stared in stunned silence then John got up, came over to her and hugged her very tight. They were all finding it hard to speak, over come as they were with emotion. But John spoke first,

'No, Molly, that makes sense, it really does. He was desperate that night. I'd never seen him like it. He told me there was something he had to do and when I said I would come with him he said he had to do it alone. He must have decided then that he needed you. Do you know, I kind of feel happy for him. And I am really grateful to you, Molly, that you could comfort him when he really needed it. No, I understand completely.'

Into the silent room, a querulous little voice intruded. William was awake. Molly excused herself and went off to her bedroom, to see to him. She picked up her darling babe and hugged him to her. She had told another lie but it was a necessary one and they had all believed her. Yes, it did make sense that Sherlock might seek out physical comfort when faced with certain death. They could all buy into that. She had taken a big lie and wrapped it up in a small amount of truth and everyone had swallowed it. So, in doing a bad thing, she had accomplished a good thing. Sherlock's biggest secret was still safe and, therefore, so were his friends. Molly dried her tears, smiled at William's curious expression and took him out to greet his guests.

While she had been in the bedroom, the others had found their voices and were all talking about her revelation but they all smiled and gave a little cheer when she appeared with the baby. Mrs Hudson went off to get the champagne and glasses and Greg removed the cork with a practiced hand and poured everyone a glass – even Molly had a tiny sip – and they toasted baby William and his mum and his dad. It was the easy bit, then, to ask them to be god parents. They would all be thrilled and delighted, they said. Then they all took a turn at holding their god child-to-be, until he got really fractious because he had been rather expecting to be fed, right about then. Molly excused herself again and went back into her room to feed him, leaving the others to share their feelings about this startling turn of events.

About twenty minutes later, when Molly was just redressing her baby on the makeshift changing pad, which was the top of her chest of drawers, there was a knock at the door. She called for them to come in. It was John. He sat on the edge of the bed and gave that little cough that he often did when he was about to say something he wasn't entirely sure of.

'What's the matter, John?' she asked.

'Molly, please don't take this the wrong way. I'm a doctor – as you know, obviously - and I can't help but notice that Sherlock has been gone for just over ten months and William is only three weeks old. How can Sherlock be William's father?'

Molly could see how difficult John was finding this conversation but she admired him for having the courage to voice his doubts. She was so glad she had anticipated this question.

'William was two weeks late, John,' she said, blithely. 'Trust Sherlock's baby to take his own time,' she giggled.

John gave an exaggerated nod and exhaled loudly. He looked relieved. Then, he asked,

'Does Mycroft know? About the baby?'

'Yes, I told him first, the day after William was born,' she replied.

'Well, that makes sense, then.' John nodded, almost triumphantly. 'That day we came to see you, in the Mother and Baby Unit, remember? As we were leaving, I was sure I saw Mycroft get out of a car and come into the hospital. Mary said I was seeing things but I was so sure and now I know I did. He was coming to see you, wasn't he?' She nodded and smiled, apologetically.

'No, it's OK, Molly, really it is. I just thought I was going a bit mad but now I know I wasn't so everything is fine!' He smiled and hugged her, and then kissed William on the top of his head.

'Oh, my goodness, young man,' he said, fixing the baby with a stern look, 'if you are half as annoying as your dad, you are going to drive your poor mum to drink!'

ooOoo

5


End file.
